


Four Things

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Actually Sort Of Canon Compliant, Alpha Kylo Ren, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Dont Tell Me What I Cant Write, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Force Bond (Star Wars), Knotting, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pre-Canon, Rutting, Set in Canon Universe, Wet Dream, What Was I Thinking?, mutual resentment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2019-11-08 02:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17972426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: So yes, Kylo Ren hates you. Kylo Ren looks at you as though he might just sear you through his mask. Kylo Ren speaks to you as though you are being prepared for an immediate spacing. Kylo Ren avoids you, Kylo Ren sidesteps you. He dismisses you. Tries to have you transferred out. Tries to order you away.You can imagine, then, how shocked you are; that one night that you find him. Naked and trembling and pasted in sweat: heart hammering as he thrusts his cock desperately into his palm. The slick sound of it, of your Commander flushed with red, hair splayed against your pillow. Eyes squeezed shut as he lets out the filthiest moan, and oh--your name. Tumbling forward like a reverent prayer that he holds close in the cold dark.(An a/b/o fic in which Kylo Ren is an arrogant Alpha and you've had enough of his garbage)





	1. And On That Note

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry but this is just gratuitous smut. This is shameless crackfic smut. The plot, if it exists, exists only for the sake of setting up the three course buffet of porn I'm serving.
> 
> Also if you haven't noticed: I cant decide what a/b/o should be like and I change it up every time because I'm a fool
> 
> There is no context there is no god

There are only four things you know for certain about your life in the First Order:

**1\. Everyone on this rig is overpaid, underqualified, and pretty damn desperate.**

Galactic archives don't sugar-coat the links between the old Empire and the First Order. It doesn't seem like the recruitment posters are trying too hard, either. It's pretty much the same structure, right down to the felty uniforms and the hydrocannon programming software. The First Order - for all of its overhauls - is Empire 2.0. 

Empire 2.0 is a great place to be, for the poor and the desperate. Pay is five times the base pay of recruits in the Republic; hierarchy allows for good movement.

Don't ask about the Death Star, though.

Try not to think about Empire 1.0.

It's not productive.

 

**2\. General Armitage Hux is just looking for a reason to fire you.**

Rumours circulate often and unceremoniously about yet another Officer being deployed back into postings on hostile worlds for so much as _breathing_ the same filtered air as General Hux. _No sir, I couldn't find any sign of Republic transmissions_ leads to _why yes, sir: I've always wanted to retire to Hoth. Thank you sir. Shall I shoot myself with my own blaster, to save you the trouble?_

Your rank as a Lieutenant leaves you increasingly in his line of sight - but luckily, the chain of command between Lieutenant and General is stacked high with ladder-climbers and fodder for him to focus on. He neither seems to harbour any good will to you, nor any sense of resentment. You wonder if that's his way: General Hux has no setting for mistakes or failure. Failure is a brick wall: success leaves your head on your shoulders. If you had failed him; you would not be around to have an opinion of him.

And thus, you work hard on being utterly invisible.

Which helps immeasurably with number three:

**3\. Omegas, where they exist in this organisation, are not well-regarded.**

Day One of joining the First Order: you had your Captain make some form of remark about how he had never worked with an 'aberrant' Lieutenant before.

Aberrant.

Wonderful.

Omegas now are rarer than ever - it's not a fact anyone disputes. Whether by nature's hand or something else; both Alpha and Omega designations are slowly subsiding with every new generation of humans. The positives to this, according to the First Order, are painstakingly obvious. Beta humans aren't incapacitated by _pheromones_ or _monthly_ _heats_ or _knots_ or _'reductive practices' in combat and engagement._ They see you as an extra liability for resources, even if that is not made transparent in their manifesto.

Which is pretty kriffing hypocritical, if the rumours about the Supreme Leader have any real substance.

So you take your suppressants, keep your scent muted with perfumes, keep your head up and your designation to yourself. They all know what you are; even the Betas sense _something._ But it's none of their god damned business - they can take it to HR if they're feeling testy.

But there are some things HR won't deal with.

**4\. Kylo Ren, Commander of the First Order could not hate you any more if he tried.**

Kylo Ren. Fucking. Hates. You.

You don't know how you know - you've never gone up to him to rationalise the conversation. _Hi Commander, know you're busy being self-destructive on the Bridge right now. Mind explaining to me why you've got a personal gripe? Do I need to re-take Alpha Sensitivity Training?_

You've met him enough times that you could count them on one hand; and every single one has been a minefield. Under all of those layers of thick, dark cloth: you can almost feel his distaste for you scorching you within an inch of your life. His metal mask never reveals a hint of the bitterness, but it swelters in his tone - no concession there from Alpha to Omega, even if you both have common ground to build from.

Two aberrants.

Perhaps that is part of the hatred, part of the revulsion for him. You represent the antithesis of his mantra, his training - yet here you both are. Lieutenant is not a rank they give out in cereal boxes: Commander is not a consolation prize. You are both here by your merit - by a hard graft that started long before these scattered moments came to pass. Perhaps he looks at your designation with a frank and honest disgust: Omegas represent too much of the past. Too much of the old ways. 

Too much bad blood.

So yes, Kylo Ren hates you. Kylo Ren looks at you as though he might just sear you through his mask. Kylo Ren speaks to you as though you are being prepared for an immediate spacing. Kylo Ren avoids you, Kylo Ren sidesteps you. He dismisses you. Tries to have you transferred out. Tries to order you away.

You can imagine, then, how shocked you are; that one night that you find him. Naked and trembling and pasted in sweat: heart hammering as he thrusts his cock desperately into his palm. The slick sound of it, of your Commander flushed with red, hair splayed against your pillow. Eyes squeezed shut as he lets out the filthiest moan, and oh-- _your name_. Tumbling forward like a reverent prayer that he holds close in the cold dark.

But perhaps that's getting a little ahead of yourself. Every Empire 2.0 needs that moment of detonation. The First Order does not exist in a vacuum.

No: this story requires a catalyst. Requires you to go back to the beginning.

To that first, catastrophic meeting.

* * *

Someone on the Bridge that day had to be sent to inform Commander Ren that his TIE-Fighter would be out of business for another standard week.

Standard protocol is an absolute riot when it comes to the Commander, you have learned: on the off chance that Hux requires a slither of information be communicated (and when that information is not pertinent to the survival of the First Order as a whole) he presents two possible avenues to the naval crew on the Bridge. Either someone is to volunteer to deliver the information in person, or Hux will undoubtedly send the least senior member of the Bridge team.

Naturally, nobody in the First Order is stupid enough or suicidal enough to volunteer. Ever. So naturally, on that day, you being the shiny newly-promoted Lieutenant was a huge wrecking ball straight through your otherwise peaceful afternoon.

You stood up slowly from your desk; noticing how every other Officer watched you with an animalistic curiosity. _So this is the girl Kylo Ren will chew up today._

Kriff. You really hoped he didn't strangle you.

Your boots scuffed the floor as they clicked along the walkway: no trace of comfort to be found in the rising scents of Betas. The occasional acidic tang of an Alpha helped to build up a tapestry, but the Bridge was not a place of peace. The eerie, fleeting conversations here provided nothing to ease your anxieties.

Down the corridor, then left, then...another left? Two lefts? Follow the sounds of screaming? The smell of sizzling flesh?

You'd never met Kylo Ren, but the rumours proceeded him. None of them were exactly flattering - and some were downright terrifying. One recruit had drunkenly expressed that she believed he was some sort of decrepit old alien, hiding under cybertronics. Claims of Kylo Ren's desire to eat the hearts of Republic soldiers. Something about him skewering a diplomat with a lightsaber, cackling as he did through his vocoder. 

The only one that was genuinely palpable, that held legitimate weight: was substantiated by his scent.

Bitingly Alpha. Horrendously so. In every way an Alpha can possibly be manifest; Kylo Ren embodies it. He apparently reeked like acrid, dry cinnamon. So strong was his scent that Betas could feel it coiling tightly in their nostrils; even Dopheld Mitaka (the most unthreatening man in the First Order's ranks) had shown some signs of genuine defensiveness around the Commander.

His scent wove through corridors he traipsed through, setting every Alpha on the gritting knife edge. You had only ever smelled such a thing in bleak passing - and you were in no position to deny it. The heady pheromones made you practically vibrate out of your skin, even through layers of military-grade suppressant that dampened all notions of pressure between your hipbones. Even through disinfectant, through the passage of time - you were every bit as enticed as you could be.

Which should have been a big indicator that things were going to start falling apart preeeeeetty much immediately.

Turning through endless corridors in your light-grey uniform, you paused in the doorway. Huffed a breath for a moment.

Then risked the quietest, most pathetic knock on the frame in the history of the world. So soft and hesitant that it screamed through the metal a bundle of insecurities, ranging on a scale from I Wish I Could Just Navigate This Job Without Communicating to Superiors straight to Please Don't Strangle Me, Commander Ren, He Who Has A Reputation For Profuse Strangling. But you didn't have long to panic about the skin on your throat, because the door opened with a thwick.

And there he was.

Tapping away on a datapad jammed into the wall: a tangle of black. The most gothic thing you'd seen on this ship so far (and that's saying something, all things considered) stood before you, back to you as his cloak draped over his mountainous form. 6ft 3 of muscled, jet black, break-room refrigerator. Helmet glinting in the low light; visor trained upward on the screen that listed endless scrawl of galactic flight plans.

For a moment, you considered turning tail and running for the hills. Take the nearest escape pod and fucking sprint it out of here. _Seeya, Commander. Good luck conquering your next planet._

But instead, your voice crackled on inflections as you clapped your hands behind your back. Willing yourself not to breathe, to think, to screw up.

"Commander" you licked your lips. Good start. "...May I haveawordwithyou?"

Okay. Right. Yep. Cool.

Commander Ren, if he heard you, kept tapping away as though he hadn't. Kriffing rude, but not your biggest problem. Because in the wake of a lack of ventilation, his scent rose up like a thick fog: assaulting the roof of your mouth and sitting there. Filling you up.

_Alpha._

Hot cinnamon, fresh apples. Walks in the rain. Corellian Merlot. Sharp pine and soft blankets. Green grass.

Oh kriffing bantha shit. Your heart picked up pace with the pounding in your brain: suddenly acutely zoning in on the hard muscle beneath your Commander's robes. His scent was so unbelievably strong that you had to bring your palm up to the doorframe, had to brace yourself against it as you clenched your spare fist at your side. The pressure between your hipbones was appauling and ridiculous and _so, so not necessary, you dumb stupid brain, you primitive shameless fool._ Despite the high-dose suppressants flooding your system, you just knew: your underwear was going to end up in the garbage chute by the end of the day. 

Fucking Alphas.

Without much of a word: Kylo Ren turned slowly, on heel. Obtuse boredom permeated the air around him; his dark visor taking you in.

Immediately, you forced yourself to straighten, forced your legs together. Willed your hands to clasp behind your back, even if your knuckles were whiter than the burning stars. This only had to be brief - in, speak, be strangled, out. Only a few minutes.

Silence permeated the air. A buzzing in your thighs, thin trickle of slick in your pants.

_Please, for kriff's sake, stay perfectly still. Don't let him smell it._

Now _that_ would be embarrassing. 

"General Hux sent me. Sir--Commander, I..." you took a shaky breath, feeling lightheaded from the saturation of his scent. Force, was he even on blockers? He smelled positively cusping on-

"-Out with it, Lieutenant." His voice was robotic through his vocoder: his demand laced with an undercurrent of impatience. 

_Yes Alpha. Anything._

"He wanted me to...relay that repairs were underway...Sir. But that they would take a little over a standard week. Damage to the hull was severe..." _Alpha. "_...Sir."

_Good save._

You had expected a meltdown. Screaming. Tearing. A blazing sword cutting through electronics, metal walls, _your throat._

But something far, far more unnerving happened.

The monitor Kylo Ren was working on audibly cracked. Webs of damage spread through the screen, upward in rivers that sent blue pixels radiating across the LED - while your Commander just stood there. Staring at you. Watching you react. A light fixture sparked; something flew across the room - Kylo Ren's hands balled into gloved fists that barely shook. None of the damage was aimed at you; nothing directed towards you - as though his anger were a barely contained spark, catching in a fireplace and spilling over.

You tried to maintain your footing; but something brought you stumbling, back pressed up against the frame. Holding on as Kylo Ren, Commander of the First Order, Alpha Extraordinaire just utterly decimated a room with...nothing. Not even the flick of a wrist. Pure, unabated, cracking anger.

And then, as quickly as it had started: Kylo Ren just _stopped_.

And well, shit. Guess this was the part that half the poor Bridge had talked about.

Except, no - not even close. 

A noise escaped your Commander's vocoder: a huffing, sharp sound that crackled through the mouthpiece and made your heart pound in your veins. Compared to the harsh sounds of breaking bulbs and thrashing debris that had preceded it, the noise was utterly impossible to comprehend. A...sigh? A rasped breath? Could've even been a damned hiccup, as far as the vocoder translated.

Oh. Kriffing. _Fuck_.

You felt your stomach lurch as Kylo's scent suddenly fluctuated, pheromones darting wildly in response to your own. His blockers should have been putting in the hard yards to prevent this--but no. You could feel a pulse of slick on your uniform, feel the way Kylo Ren's body was suddenly seemingly closer, seemingly imposing over you. Layers of clothing holding back rivers of muscle; the scent of unmated, crisp and fresh and powerful near-rut _Commander_ lingering everywhere. Turning your bones to jelly and igniting your blood. His chest seemed almost eerily still - intentionally so - as his scent vibrated pure uncontrolled energy.

 _Alpha_ , your brain whispered reverently. 

_Please, please shut up._

_"Out"_ Kylo hissed, voice flat and steady and dripping with malice. "Out. _Now."_

You had nothing more to say that your body hadn't already given away in the transaction - the embarrassing, stupid, blindingly pitiful transaction - and so you absolutely _bolted_ for it. No love lost, no regret whatsoever. Bolted despite your blood screaming in your veins, despite the aching in your stomach, despite the dripping wetness on your thighs. Bolted, despite the way Commander Ren's scent lingered stubbornly deep in your lungs, burrowing down. Filtering into your blood.

If you had been wiser, you might've gone back to the Bridge then and there. Might've taken overtime. Asked for a transfer, even. Ignored the wrenching need.

Might not have gone back to your quarters, silently laying back in the dark: fucking your hand to the scent of Kylo Ren drenching you. Drowning you.

But you did.

And that was only the _first_ time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry I wrote this
> 
> [Come and give me Hell on Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com).


	2. Don't Poke The Bear (Wolf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that's the real fucking kicker, isn't it? If you could go back to that meeting, back to that little boardroom: would you have figured it out? There's some irony in it somewhere - some irony in remembering what comes next while watching your Commander hiss your name through gritted teeth, bucking harshly into his hand. Pressing his free arm against his eyes as though in shame, as though to stifle visions that spewed forth from them. His wrist back against his fluttering eyelids as he parts his plush lips in this elongated, pained moan: desperate and keening for release. He's chasing it, chasing it desperately - and you. You are too busy leaning back in shock, dripping in want - keening and reeling from the idea that this man, this Alpha, this Commander: is feverish with want. Begging and pleading for it.
> 
> Over you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look I mean you're all out here waving your hats going "BRING OUT THE BIG GUNS" and who am I to deny you?  
> We'll never find out because we're cranking this baby up  
> 

So after that traumatic altercation: you decide to just create this internal action plan.

It goes a little something like this:

 **1\. Avoid Kylo Ren wherever possible.** Which is about as under your control as the galactic economy is, all things considered. But your ability to avoid him in downtime can be controlled - which means no lingering in places he could show up. No loitering in officer hangar bays, no frequenting of transmissions rooms he pops up in. 

 **2\. If, in the event of utter catastrophy, Ren does cross your path: hold your breath and keep calm.** Bite your lip, squeeze your legs, hum the imperial march. You know; try to come off as bored at worst. Do not, under any circumstances, give any indication that you want to roll around in his scent until it's drenching you from the inside out. That's a no-no.

 **3\. Do not think about Kylo Ren at all, outside of professional practice.** Not out of annoyance, not out of passing thought. And certainly, NEVER EVER with your hand jammed between your legs.

So when the second time swung around: you had been practicing that mantra. You were feeling pretty ready to face the day.

And then - well. Then shit hit the proverbial fucking fan.

* * *

 

About a week on from your first uncomfortable meeting with Kylo Ren: you got a ping on your datapad.

The message was simple - some sort of briefing about weapon systems for an upcoming raid on some far-flung system. Naturally, what this meant was that anyone working in the higher echelons of the naval party were required to have General Hux spout off about the 'expectations of the First Order' and how he was 'anticipating we would all perform with gravitas and dignity'.

Ergo: Hux wanted to explain to you who to blow up, how to blow them up, what you'd be using to blow them up, and why if you didn't blow them up, you could expect him to blow _you_ up.

So you didn't anticipate this being your day.

It was way too early for a meeting as you stumbled through to the viewing platform of the flight deck, hovering near the entrance to the little conference room you and some ten-or-so Lieutenants and Captains would be shuffled into. As a Lieutenant in naval corps, there was some expectation you'd just go where you were told, shoot what you needed to shoot and run. The flight gear looked like something out of your worst nightmare, and TIE-Fighters weren't exactly comfortable: but credits are credits, right?

You'd take flying out in those tiny shitholes over having to deal with the General of the army anyday, though. Any goddamn day.

Huffing in a breath, you keyed in the access - and well.

Well.

_Well._

_"Lieutenant."_

Heads snapped around - glassy eyes staring at you as you stood in the doorway. Eyeing up every uniform as though you were doing a spot-check on each one. _Crisp. Well-ironed. Nice hair, Mitaka. Well gelled._

The table stretched out before you: graphs and charts floating in the blue light of the holoprojector. And there, at the head of the table-

Kriffing, fucking, god, force in a handbasket, force in a kriffing-

"Apologies, Commander. I got a little lost."

Your feet started moving of their own accord around the table: moving around to the only free seat in the room. The one, glittering metal throne of a seat: the open casket you may as well be burying yourself in. You dared not so much as breathe as you closed your eyes for a brief moment, sucking your lip and sliding into the seat closest to your Commander. 

Closest to an Alpha you were _specifically_ and _undeniably_ attempting to avoid.

Opposite you; a female Lieutenant gave you a polite, appreciative smile. Her eyes conveyed some level of sympathy - despite her Beta designation, she clearly had some understanding that this wasn't where you wanted to be. Whether by the look on your face, by the scent leaking off of you being strong enough to alert even Betas to your plight, or by word on the Bridge getting around: you couldn't quite be sure.

Kylo Ren did not so much look uncomfortable as he did look utterly, brutally angry - even under that metal death trap on his face. You tried to focus as one of the Captains stood up, tapping the console and loading up a star chart: tried to focus as your lungs screamed for breath. But in your periphery; Kylo Ren's dark form was taut as a bowstring. Back flush against his chair, vocoder slightly cracking with his breath. Gloved hands on the edge of the table, clinging to it as though he was willing to snap off the pieces of metal and hurl them wildly, shrieking like a damn banshee.

And as that Captain started presenting whatever the hell it was he was saying, his forehead beading with perspiration as Kylo Ren stared him down: you sipped in a breath.

_Alpha. Alpha, Alpha. Alpha._

You swallowed hard enough that it physically crackled in your throat, a lead weight of red-hot radiation as you held yourself in place. Oh. God. So kriffing good.

You tried to keep your breathing even - _tried_. But there was this heat radiating outwards from your Commander - this concentrated scent, this burning raging cinnamon and apple death trap that was coiling in your stomach and pumping, pumping outward. Your heart skipped, sweat dripping, eyes wild. Almost as though your veins were physically constricting at the thought of what lay under those robes; what sort of man could forge this unholy scent? This exquisite burning, right through your blood? Was everyone...did they all know, too? Could they feel him moving in their veins, burrowing down?

_Touch him. Touch your Alpha._

You bit down on a groan: reaching up to pinch your brows and catch at the sweat beading there. The space between you and your Commander was close enough that you could cross it with the reach of an arm - it could almost be accidental. Just one touch. One touch and his scent would be all over you, imprinted into your palms. You could keep it there, hold it there for _days_. Even through all those thick layers of armour, through all of those leather gloves; one touch. One touch and you could just-

The lighting in the boardroom whirred briefly; engulfing the room in darkness for a moment. Everyone's eyes darted around, searching for the source in the softly lit room. 

Everyone but Kylo Ren.

No: his dark visor remained facing forwards. Straight ahead. Burning a hole with his vision straight into the center of the table as his vocoder hissed and clicked.

And almost as soon as it started, the map flickered back on. Lighting blinkered and fizzed and flooded the room, causing you to shield your eyes for a brief moment.

And everyone just...carried on. Carried on like there wasn't just some weird generator shortage. And you had done the same - had just dragged your reddened eyes back to the presentation in the center of the room. Believing it was some stupid screw up on the mainframe. Not knowing any better.

Not knowing what you know now.

And that's the real fucking kicker, isn't it? If you could go back to that meeting, back to that little boardroom: would you have figured it out? There's some irony in it somewhere - some irony in remembering what comes next while watching your Commander hiss your name through gritted teeth, bucking harshly into his hand. Pressing his free arm against his eyes as though in shame, as though to stifle visions that spewed forth from them. His wrist back against his fluttering eyelids as he parts his plush lips in this elongated, _pained_ moan: desperate and keening for release. He's chasing it, chasing it desperately - and _you_. You are too busy leaning back in shock, dripping in want - keening and reeling from the idea that this man, this _Alpha_ , this _Commander_ : is feverish with want. Begging and pleading for it.

Over you.

But back then, just a few days ago - yes. You had every reason to believe he could hardly stand you. Detested your very nature.

Which was made all the more difficult by your mind betraying you: even as the presentation commenced. His scent engulfed you with such an unwavering desparation that your thighs were quaking, knees knocking. Slick dripped furiously into your uniform, and your heart thundered as you moved them together slightly. Trying to generate some friction.

_Like that has ever worked literally ever before._

You knew that you had to get out of here; seriously, seriously get out of here. You were feeling prickles on your neck, hot on the glands either side - and that was not ideal. Not ideal at all. Because if those prickles were left to stagnate, you knew exactly what would happen. Knew exactly what sort of serious fuckery would start vibrating through your brain.

Force; you had never smelled anything this strong before. Never smelled anything that pulled you this close to that precipice, despite all of those suppressants. Where were his blockers? Wasn't there some sort of kriffing rule about Alphas and Omegas suppressing this sort of thing? How did the First Order expect you to do your job when you were absolutely scattered and craning for release, just being in the same room as a Senior Commander?

Maybe this whole job thing wasn't working out so well.

"...Which is why we've boosted our hyperspace communications on the new units - fleet range just wasn't cutting it."

The Captain - Sephi, was it? Sephi Tak'tar? Tak'mar? Something like that. Well, Sephi glanced over at Commander Ren with a mixture of awe and intense, intense fear. 

And Kylo Ren barely tilted his visor upward.

"Perhaps that wouldn't have been necessary" Kylo stated blankly, visor tilting upward "had maintenance from your division been better equipped to deal with this problem."

_No. No, that's not the case. Sephi couldn't have realised communications were flat through routine maintenance. Because hyperspace comms had been fluctuating based upon frequency of transmissions from nearby systems - which needed to be corrected case-by-case._

That train of thought was all very well and good - until all faces in the room shot around to you.

Oh fuck.

FUCK.

Had you said that out loud?

OH FUCK.

Well, that's it. That was the lowest of the low. Congrats, you did it.

"Is that right, _Lieutenant_?"

Commander Ren's visor snapped around to your face: dark space where his eyes ought to be fixed onto you. His chest was...inflating, deflating. Pushing out breath through layers of padded shirt in a way that made his whole body heave - heave with an anger that snapped through the air like the flick of an elastic band. And with every moment you sat there, every second of eye contact you made with him; his scent seemed to grow sharper. Thicker. Thickening before you; musky enough that you felt your spine tingle and your mouth dry.

As though your eyes meeting his was so painfully revolting for him that his body was forcing yours to quiver and shake with... _something_.

_Displeased. Alpha is-_

_Honestly. SHUT UP._

And then you just decided, then and there. If Kylo Ren was going to hate you regardless: you may as well do your job with some god damned dignity.

"It is."

You were right. You knew you were right - and so did he. And this pitiful attempt to pull rank wouldn't--

"You clearly have experience in this area. Perhaps you ought to have been promoted to Admiral, since you know so much about communications mechanics. Or do you think it wise to question established protocol, Omega?"

Oh Force. You closed your teeth hard enough to bite down on the whimper that tried to rush from your throat, punching through your chest in immediate response to the sound of your designation on his tongue. Even pressed through a vocoder, your body immediately responded: immediately flooded with endorphins that demanded, that utterly and completely _demanded_ that you backed down. That you rolled over and submitted to this asshole and his Alpha pheromones - let him tell you, here and now, that you were to pay close attention to him.

Enough murmurs spread through the room to tell you that this was _not_ a normal interaction with Commander Ren: as if you couldn't read that from the way his scent leaked off the sharpest, tautest frustration. He was so tightly strung, so completely close to just-

"With all due respect, _Alpha_ : my job is to find solutions. Not complicate problems."

And that was when it happened.

The glass pitcher in the center of the room just...smashed. Fell to shards that sprayed across the table in glistening pieces as water spilled out, causing several officers to jump back with a gasp. Water dripped down across the metal table as little glints of glass skidded to the floor.

And Kylo Ren jolted up from his seat as though he had been physically stung by you. As though you had stabbed him in the chest - as though you had lunged for his throat. The movement was not graceful as you had expected, nor was it dignified. It was a grasp in the dark, a stumble through a thick fog that was impossible to navigate through. His cloak billowed as he shook and shook - like a goddamn swoop bike left on auto, shivering and shuddering with these rasped breaths. You wondered what he looked like under that mask right at that moment: whether he was red-hot and heaving, dripping in sweat. Shaking with frustration and bitter anger; whether that was biting him in the way it was biting you.

And the _smell_. Force and fuck above, the smell of him was roasting you from the inside. He smelled so kriffing indecent in that moment that you noticed the few Alphas in the boardroom grip the sides of their seats, grip the table in front of them. To them, he must've reeked like acidic, bitter aggression.

To you, he smelled like power. Sex. A drug so potent that your body screamed for him; that your hands trembled as you felt so close to cumming in your seat you nearly swore under your breath.

No. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

And right as that thought rolled over you, right as you rubbed your thighs to relieve some pressure - Commander Ren made an audible growl. A groan of anger, a groan of unabated hatred and sheer disgust.

And then, he turned on heel and stalked from the room. So fast that his cloak billowed behind him, that his scent dragged through the room and made Alphas squeeze their eyes shut from the pure aggression that filtered from it.

Strong enough that heat prickled in your belly, your eyes watering from the shock of it all.

And as he was walking out, you swore you saw him clasp his hand between his thighs. Shameless and strong. 

You doubted it then: doubted you had seen it. Doubted it as Lieutenants and Captains alike laughed and gave you a pat on the back - called you a damned hero. _Biggest balls of any Lieutenant I've seen: Alpha, Beta or Omega._ Cheered you on for being so brazen to challenge someone so terrifyingly commanding.

But you don't deny it now.

Now, you know how hard his knot must've been under there. How flushed, how swollen. How full it must've been, for him to end up in this state.

But you weren't to know. How could you have known?

It had ached through your body, pulsed through your soul.

And that was the _second_ time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I write 'utterly' in one chapter? I don't know but I think we found out
> 
> [Come and give me Hell on Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)!


	3. Go On, I Dare You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rasped groan: it rips from his throat in a fever - as though it's too big for his lips, too much for him to keep hidden in his frame. Plush lips part as he holds your leather glove up to his nose; gasping for breath against the thick fabric as his hips cant into the air.
> 
> "Please" he begs, voice trembling as his thighs shake. He moves to nuzzle his head into the pillow, groaning wildly as he pumps with hard, fast strokes. It's intense; punishing. The desperation of an Alpha possessed, chasing release for a pressure that threatens to break his very bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well  
> If it isn't my old friend  
> The feeling that Kylo is a hopeless idiot

Which brings events to this afternoon. Closer to the cataclysmic ridiculousness now unfurling in your cramped quarters; brings them to your third experience with the Alpha in question.

That stupid, stupid, incredible Alpha.

Your TIE-fighter was in need of some well overdue maintenance: your overuse of the clutch on yesterday's flight had left it more than a little worse for wear when shifting gears, so it was impounded for the time being while some overpaid mechanic poked around its insides. Naturally, this had left you with a perfect opportunity to test out one of the newer models. A custom-build, fresh out of the workshop: a lithe, larger fit with more buttons than you could possibly need. It flew like a goddamn charm: Force above, the feel of the console under your gloves had been almost electrifying.

When it came to signing it off, you couldn't help but check through the paperwork to see who the lucky officer was, getting such a beautiful runner. You sat back against the leather seat, picking through your datapad to see the sign-on records.

Was killing a superior officer to get access to their TIE-fighter against regulations? Maybe you could make it look like an accident.

_Sorry, General Hux: I have no idea what happened to the Admiral. He walked into my pistol. His last request was that I got access to his sweet new ride._

You felt a flush on the back of your neck; some sort of weird warmth prickling on your skin. Shit: flight sickness was going around. You really did _not_ want to end up in medbay vomiting into a bucket until kingdom come.

Unless...

You did the maths. And then again. Twenty-eight days, but then...suppressant breaks, minus how your cycle-

Nope. Still a good month and a half off.

Still fine. But regardless, you balanced your datapad on your knees and pulled off your gloves with your teeth. They were clammy, scent-drenched: all sugar and stupid Omega hormones. Recently you were just in a fluctuating pit of anxiety and adrenaline, your scent spiking and fluctuating with your mood at every given opportunity. Which was annoying to say the least as you pocketed your gloves in your loose flight pants.

The registration on the TIE came through: Lauri Santine worked on the design. Funding was from High Command; straight from the top, enough zeroes to make you suddenly feel very nervous about touching anything at all.

Ownership: Cmd689-27.

Cmd.

Commander.

_Commander._

Oh my god. The universe hated you.

Hated. You.

And as if on cue, as if to hammer home the true Force fuckery of the situation - a message pinged up in the corner of your little blue screen. Your direct superior, Will - his callsign flashing up in glowing white text. Will's one of your closest friends on this rig; he's an Alpha, see. Not in the obvious, me-smash-and-crash way. He's something decidedly more pleasant - his scent like crisp snowfall, the tang of honey, fresh from the hive. It's something profoundly lovely, somehow. Sparking warmth in your blood, but not threatening to scorch right through your skin.

Your stomach was already sommersaulting wildly at the realisation that this damned TIE belonged to a man who wanted you put through a human mincer - but it couldn't get worse, right?

Wrong.

 **15:00 (Cpt346-02):**  Hey kiddo. Weird one - did you put in a request for transfer yesterday?   
**15:00 (Cpt346-02):** There's an application to transfer form on my desk with your name on it. Seems weird

No. No you did not.

You took a gaping breath, immediately typing up a response. "Fuck" didn't seem quite appropriate through official channels, so you decided to just convey...panic. Utter, First Order funded panic, sweating buckets in Commander Ren's brand new TIE fighter. Absolutely ridiculous.

 **15:01 (Lt854-14):** What  
15:01 (Lt854-14): Uh no  
15:01 (Lt854-14): Definitely not

Wait. Stupid thought, but had you...had you accidentally filled in a wrong form? You were definitely prone to situational cock-ups. Better to check.  
**  
15:01 (Lt854-14):** Did it say I approved it?

You felt as though you might pass out. Or die. Who had requested your transfer? Was it the man in question, the Commander himself? Was this a genuine enough grievance to steal his TIE-fighter and run for the hills? You didn't know if you could say as you stumbled to your feet, snatching up your datapad and staggering to the hatch controls. You snapped the switch, clammy palms shuddering as you pulled yourself out of the cockpit and onto the floor of the hangar bay - the cold air biting at your warm skin, doing nothing for the anxiety settling in the pit of your stomach.

You immediately snapped up your datapad, three new messages blinking on the screen:

 **15:03 (Cpt346-02):** Came from over my head. Nothing on file regarding you approving it **  
15:03 (Cpt346-02):** Not punitive though. Which is why I'm confused  
**15:03 (Cpt346-02):** Made to look like it was you

Not punitive.

You weren't fired. Weren't getting blasted from an airlock. Thank Force and fuck above - thank everyone, everything. Because in truth: applications for transfer happened often enough. Happened enough that you could take in a breath, take a moment to think. 

Not fired. Not fired.

Not punitive. So long as Will didn't...

 **15:03 (Lt854-14):** Will **  
15:03 (Lt854-14):** Trust me ** **  
****15:04 (Lt854-14):**** It wasn't me

Needed to seal the deal. Needed to-  
****  
15:04 (Lt854-14):**** Please don't approve it ****  
15:05 (Lt854-14): I love this job

And just like that, there was this moment.

Your steps quickened as you made your way out of the hangar, as you pushed your way through the threshold of another doorway. Your datapad clutched in one hand, your other fumbling through your pockets. And in a haze - thick, undeniable - a fog began to force itself through to your very bones. A scent that wrapped itself through your hair, winding through the rivulets of your lips as you felt your already quickened heart thrum in tangible want.

Oh for Force's sake. This had to be a dream! Nothing this bad can ever happen to anyone in real life!

Because around the corner - right as you desperately scurried from view - his scent _utterly_ engulfed you.

His cloak billowed in the cloying air, his mask fixed forward as he moved with no reserve; no concern for passers by who mumbled the occasional 'good afternoon, sir'. There was no sense of his brief acknowledgement, no change in his fixated march as he moved through the corridor. Everything about him played to sharpness, to Alpha characteristics that could never be replicated. God; what did he look like under all of those layers? All of that hard, thick Alpha muscle: sharp, strong pheromones and--

"Sir" you choked, hand crushing your datapad as you fumbled in your pocket for your gloves. Shit, there's one: there's the distinctive feeling of a leather finger. But where's...did you just...

_No._

Only one glove situated itself in your pocket. One lonely, sad little glove; left without company, without a partner in crime. Its partner discarded somewhere - more than likely back on the...back on the...

Commander Ren stiffened as he passed you, his gloves creaking under the weight of his nails digging into his palms. His scent sharpened, the way Alpha scents do when fueled with distaste, with scorn.

The only thing you could be certain of, in the bright lights of that corridor: both you and Kylo Ren wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else.

And now you had to live with having left your glove in his ship. With his desire to see you thrown off to some far-flung system on Will's desk.

Your heart squeezed as you gritted your teeth, already wet in your underwear as you forced your legs to cooperate. Well; at least if you were going to get fired, you'd do it with your head held high.  Once you'd moved a suitable distance away, you took in a harsh and desperate breath: pushing it through your lungs as you saw two unread messages on your inbox.

 **15:07 (Cpt346-02):** It's fine. Trust me. You're one of my best pilots  
**15:07 (Cpt346-02):** Probably just an admin error. Don't panic

In the buzzing of a slightly dimming light; you turned to look back over your shoulder. Looked back at an empty corridor, back at the place where your Commander used to be. Back into the toxic haze that filled the air with treacle, with everything dangerous. Everything dark.

Fuck it.

Life's too short.

 **15:08 (Lt854-14):** Thanks Will **  
**

**15:08 (Cpt346-02):** :)

* * *

So perhaps now you can say it.

You know a few things for certain.

Not those same few things you knew a week ago - no, not at all. But tonight, in the scope of an unremarkable moment: the world shifted.

In the darkness of your bedroom, far later in the night when your body felt heavy from the stress of the day - you felt the creeping sense of something all-encompassingly different. It tangled through your soul, igniting in your blood - something that drew goosebumps over your skin as you stepped from the refresher, warm water drying on your nape as you breathed in the steamy air. Something alien. New. A ghost in the periphery; spots in the corner of your vision.

A presence somewhere near. Somewhere close.

Inside and out, all at once.

Your hands skirted the metal frame of your doorway; towel ruffling your hair as your naked body stood stark in the dim light. Your bed was drenched in the warmth of a yellow glow, lamplight spilling gold onto the sheets as the glass of water on your bedside table refracted, crystal dancing on the walls. Homely, if a little decadent. A little much, after so many months of thatchy recruit bunks and crisp, clinical spaces.

But right as you dropped the towel onto the top of your dresser; you froze.

Because here's the thing about bedrooms: you do get used to assuming certain objects have a home. Towels, for what they're worth, might find a place to live in a little pile on the floor. Socks might find the second-drawer on the right is their preferred place. You might even have a pillow that sits just tucked under the bed - a little too scratchy to sleep on, but too nice to be cast aside during the day.

Which is why it's curious, you see.

Because you never did have a naked man making his home in the indent of your sheets, muscles rippling in the light.

You never did have a man, pale and thick and sharp; his frame huge and overwhelming on your little mattress. Never did notice waves of pitch-black hair, constellations of freckles on a wide back.

Naked.

On your _bed_.

What. The. _Fuck._

Your brain just didn't compute it. You didn't flinch, didn't move from your spot. Just...stood there. Heart pounding, eyes wide. Gawping and stuttering at a scene your brain just couldn't possibly comprehend. How the kriff did he get in here? The door was locked; keypad requiring a four digit code and a biometric scan. No discarded clothes were in sight - nothing. Not a shirt out of place, not a pair of boots at the foot of your bed.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Zero.

And yet...

You remembered seeing a hologram, way back in a museum on Coruscant. Most holograms rendered with a bleary glow; they fixated with this soft blue light that permeated the space around them. Something not quite sitting right in the air, not quite holding their place in reality. They could be beamed anywhere a reciever sat; could be seen as though they were entirely real. 

This wasn't that. Wasn't a hologram. 

But wasn't...wasn't tangible, either. Not quite. Not quite fully solid, fully here. Between places, maybe.

Magic. The Force. A massive hallucination from the frankly exhaustively stressful experiences of the day, probably about to inflict you with a huge headache.

Your lips trembled, hands slowly moving to cover--

A moan ripped through him. Ripped through the man on the bed, his dark hair falling over his aquiline features. He flipped to collapse onto his back; brows pinched in heavy pain as he pressed a black mass of leather over his lips. He was huge: just...endlessly huge. Built like a modified starship, with twice as many flashy features. Knuckles white as he kneaded the strange fabric and nipped at it.

And right as you went to back away, to turn around and run back into the bathroom: the scent hit you.

And everything

Just

Clicked.

 _"Majestic"_ , your mind cooed. _"Beautiful Alpha. Likes my scent. Likes my things."_

Hot cinnamon, fresh apples. Walks in the rain. Corellian Merlot. Sharp pine and soft blankets. Green grass.

Without a helmet, without a cloak: how would you ever have known? Ever have guessed who this Alpha was, sprawled out and pasted in sweat? Kylo Ren had been many things, but honest? But unabashed? No: he was never those. You had suspected you would feel compelled to him, somehow drawn to him - but _this?_ He was the epitome of Alpha, the epitome of exquisite and beautiful scents that radiated straight from his pores.The epitome of strong muscle, of sharp features and deep contrasts that brought your teeth into contact with your lip. Every bewildered breath you took seemed to fill your skin, seemed to bring your naked thighs to trembling; slick, even now, dripping slowly in hot rivers over your thighs.

His free hand roamed across his stomach, across the thick muscle on his hip and lower, lower still. When they found their mark - and Force, it's not like they could miss - Kylo Ren gasped for a desperate breath. Lost in the throes of the moment, he squeezed experimentally on the soft swelling on the base of his cock: in response, his hard length jumped for a moment. Red, desperate, smeared with precum - beyond all hope of going back.

An Alpha who was so utterly lost in need that he had knotted without prompting.

And should that knot be ignored, be left to its devices - Kylo Ren's scent would grow and grow, blooming into something darker and headier. His desparation would become a fierce fire that no one would dare to try and tame - he would be lost in the grip of a rut that would feel as though his blood were battery acid. As though the fire in his lungs was endless, limitless. Alphas have to tend to knots, you see. Fuck out their contents. 

The alternative is days of writhing. No Alpha willingly chooses it.

The present dawns on you, hard and fast. This is real; happening here, now. His hand pumping in punishing strokes - and the other. Well, the other is wrapped so tightly around your discarded glove that he may as well be trying to crush it into his skin. He must've found it where you discarded it; found the lonely glove of a stressed Omega, coated in hormones and drenched in scent.

"I--"

One word - just one. Barely that, even; it's just a letter. But the way it fits with his voice, the way it flits on his lips as he chases something unimaginable; oh Force. It has you nearly dropping to your knees. As it is, as his scent curls in your stomach: your hand dips towards the shaking, dripping skin on your thigh. Hot to the touch - wanting him beyond want. Beyond all logic, beyond all understanding.

A rasped groan: it rips from his throat in a fever - as though it's too big for his lips, too much for him to keep hidden in his frame. Plush lips part as he holds your leather glove up to his nose; gasping for breath against the thick fabric as his hips cant into the air.

" _Please_ " he begs, voice trembling as his thighs shake. He moves to nuzzle his head into the pillow, groaning wildly as he pumps with hard, fast strokes. It's intense; punishing. The desperation of an Alpha possessed, chasing release for a pressure that threatens to break his very bones.

"Kriff. Omega, I need..."

His eyes roll back with a shiver; lips parting as he drools against the pillow. Huffing and panting as he picks up the pace - feet kicking out against your bed as though he can release the pressure through tensing his muscles.

But all he can do is pant and beg; tears beading as he forces your limp glove across his plush lips.

As though it's just too much for him. As though he'll die without it.

You know he should...he does...hate you, doesn't he? Isn't that the moral of this? Wasn't there some sort of lesson, or...something? Rules? Weren't you...

You slip two of your fingers into the wet heat between your legs: in spite of anything else, they meet no resistance whatsoever. The sound they make as you curl them is almost enough to tip you over the edge. Wet, so wet. Empty. Empty in the presence of an Alpha who is too full - it's ironic, or something. You're not sure you even remember how irony works at this point.

"Alpha," you whisper, licking your lips.

Kylo's scent fluctuates dangerously; his whole body craning upward as his eyes squeeze tightly shut.

"Omega. Where...Kriff, I'm going to, going to--"

And right as he does; right as he grunts in pleasure and kneads his pulsing knot - you choke out a sound. Your muscles contract around your hand - clenching in shock, in displeasure at having an Alpha so close to you cum all over his hand, but not deep inside you.

And Kylo Ren's whole being suddenly snaps up in pure shock.

His brown eyes are dark in the soft light; shoulders frantically heaving with breath as his mouth hangs open. He's still cumming, still pulsing hot cum on his stomach as tendrils of dark hair lick at his brows, at his lips, at his jaw.

"How--" he chokes "--how did you-"

And then his eyes roll back; your gaze blurring for the briefest moment.

When you look back: Kylo Ren is gone. Your glove is gone.

His scent most definitely is _not_.

And you have more questions than answers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this was just gratuitous smut  
> Stop trying to find out if theres a plot  
> THERE ISNT
> 
> [Yeet me into the sin bin on Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com).


	4. This Is Just Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your body is burning. Aching. Alight with this indescribable stillness.
> 
> He towers, all spice and cinnamon and darkness, sex and desperation - and the moment stops.
> 
> Holds itself.
> 
> "Omega," he's unsteady, now: uncontained. The same voice you heard last night, husky as his breath sends tingles through your ear. "I want..."
> 
> And then, his lips are at your throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look I dun diddly did a write  
> I told you this is just porn, what do you want from me?

Nothing worth doing is ever worth doing two hours before your alarm ought to go off.

You've lived by that mantra your whole life. Mornings are the enemy: whether they're spent in deep space or a Corellian vineyard, they're only useful for one thing.

Sleep.

So you're naturally absolutely pissed off as you groan, blinking grogilly at your datapad as lights from the morning cycle kick in - a whole two and a bit hours earlier than they're supposed to. The shrill noise of an incoming call makes you palm for it with a grunt. Where...where is that fucking--

"Kriffing bantha shit!" you jolt upward, back clicking as you rummage around on your bedside table, totally blinded by searing white light that makes everything about a thousand times more difficult. Damn, couldn't the First Order get slightly dimmer LEDs? Wasn't there a budget for this sort of crap?

Finally, your clammy hands meet the blue screen, your fingerprint letting the call screen into the room.

"--you hear me?" Will's voice crackles, clicking through your datapad.

You wipe your hands over your face in response, huffing.

"It's way too early for this, Will."

"Welcome to Command in the First Order, Rookie"

You mumble something under your breath that you definitely ought not to mumble, cussing heavily as you tense your jaw.

"This better be good."

He laughs.

"So-so. You still got the swipe access for that TIE-Fighter you were testing yesterday?"

And suddenly, you're very, very awake.

"Uhhhhh..."

"Well, the hatch access isn't working right. Looks like one of the idiots in maintenance didn't make the access code system-wide yesterday, so your swipe needs replicating. Commander has to sign off the authorization for it. You know how regulations are."

Yeah: really fucking inconvenient. 

The universe has it in for you. That's it: that's your conclusion. There's no way this ever happens to anyone: it's nonsensical, it's absolutely ridiculous. 

And you are _not_ putting up with it.

"Will...I've got..." flu?! Rakghoul plague?! Acute...system...hydroponic...words--where are the words?! "...brainrot."

"You've...you've got brainrot."

"Yeah. Well, symptoms of it."

Will goes dead silent.

And then slowly builds up to a bellowing laugh.

"Hooo boy," he gasps for breath, disbelieving laughter cracking through your datapad "okay, look: I know you've had concerns with the Commander. And I don't blame you: he's a scary guy. But he's also funding our cheddar, and you're an exceptionally good pilot. Sooner or later you're going to need to develop some sort of relationship with the guy if you're looking to move up in the ranks. Now; all I'm asking you to do is sign off your swipe card to him. You don't need to stick around, don't even need to look him in the eyes. So long as you get it done in the next hour, we're golden."

Your hands are shaking as you bite your lip.

" _Pleeeeeaaaaaase._ It _has_ to be you signing off on it. Hey, okay: I'll buy you a drink tonight after shift if you do it. A big one. With an umbrella."

Is it worth it? Worth the hammering in your chest, worth the gelatinous feeling in your legs?

Is your career worth this?

You sigh.

" _Two_ drinks."

Will's relief is palpable through the other end of the phone.

_"Two drinks."_

You'll just have to hope you don't burn up before that happens.

* * *

 

_"Kriff. Omega, I need..."_

You shiver in your uniform as you make your way through endless corridors, bright lights piercing through your hazy eyes. 3-45, 3-46...Hell, this walk is relentless.

Gives you too much time to think.

Last night swirls through your memory: pulsing in your stomach in time with your thoughts. Surely it was a dream, right? A feverish thing; unsuspected and brought on by the stress of this new role, your brain must've...must've just shorted out. Right. This is just one of those Omega things, surely.

You wish you knew at least one other Omega. Just one: one person you could turn to, one person you could ask. Is it normal; hallucinating an Alpha's presence, drenched in his scent? Is it normal to feel as though the universe is pushing you to him, forcing you to him in cataclysmic and downright stupid ways?

Is it? Is this insane? Are you losing your mind?

But as you scratch at your gland, warmth spreading from your touch - you're alone.

Always alone.

3-52 is a huge, spacious training room: its door is unlocked, but the panel indicates current use. Your heart is absolutely thrashing as it tears at your ribs, anticipation and fear in equal measure pulling at your skin, making it too hot, too tight, too much--

"Breathe" you whisper, inhaling slowly.

Then you key in access, letting the door slide open.

And it's...

It wasn't...

_It wasn't a dream._

The scent hits you first; immolating your blood to something of a cinder as it fills you, fills you up and up and up until there's no room left for anything else. It's sweat. Pheromones in their purest form. Better than anything you've ever smelled: better than anything you could have imagined smelling.

His shirt is flush to his chest. Black, all black, sleeveless and showing every chord of muscle. His loose pants fall over thick-soled boots as he moves through the room, teeth bared and dark hair pasted with sweat, blade red and cracking as he twists it with his wrist.

A dangerous hunger lingers in his dark eyes as he brings the blade down, the air singing with the raw power of his thrust.

 _"Alpha"_ you whisper, unable to hold it in as it bursts from your lips.

Kylo pants on the spot: sweat dripping to the floor as he sucks his lip, sheathing his lightsaber with an elegance that feels almost comical. He's just so...so broad. Shouldn't he be a graceless, lumbering idiot?

His nostrils flare, tasting the air--

And his eyes snap up to you.

Dilating. Taking you in.

The air nearly vibrates as your body gives no reprieve - drawing you to lean closer, to take in his every feature. He's so much more beautiful than you remember: every swoop of his cheekbones makes your heart leap, every freckle that dusts his skin calling you to trace it with your fingertips.

Neither of you move, and fuck, it's endless. The air thickening, the desperation growing, forming into something else, something--

_"You."_

You suddenly feel very, very small.

Kylo swallows; eyes wide as he takes you in. Dark gaze raking over your lips, across your torso. Everywhere. _Anywhere_.

"Commander," you pull your eyes to your feet, gritting your teeth, "I know that neither of us want to be here, sir, but I have your swipe access that needs--"

"--How did you _do it?"_

He cuts you off - your nervous rant? Boom. Gone. He pulls on the breaks and you naturally just stutter out, his scent heaving in your lungs as you gawp at his nerve.

Force's sake. Why can't he be fifty and wrinkled like a taun-taun?

So your mouth just moves of its own accord.

"Sir?"

He twists his lightsaber in his palm, flipping it into his belt holster in one fluid movement. Not once does he break eye contact, and ugh. Stupid stupid Omega hormones swim through your blood, begging you to just cross the distance and hand him the datapad. Give him anything he wants.

You _know_ what he wants. 

"Tell me," he grits his teeth. "Tell me _how you did it."_

And you've never felt this before - never, never, never - but oh kriff: you'll tell him anything. The pressure between your hipbones seems to move to this buzz, this warmth that floods you as you bathe in the idea that yes: you'll be compliant.

Is this the Force? What is he--

"I don't know. I wish I did."

Kylo isn't satisfied.

His boots screech on the metal floor as he takes several laboured strides across the room: moving in an arc around you, his scent swirling, dark eyes hungry. Glued to the spot, you hear him move behind you. Hear him panting, catching his breath.

Feel him move closer.

Oh kriff. The gland on your neck twitches, perspiration forming on your clammy hands.

You've never wanted anything this much.

Kylo makes a sound behind you - something you can't place. He's so close: he could just touch you. Could just lean out, just...just...

His voice is low when it hits your ears. Thick, deep with lust. Drenched in it.

"How can you be doing this to me?"

And you really do whimper then.

Whimper like a damned fool.

His solid chest is warm against your back: his scent so overwhelming that your knees threaten to buckle. Hot slick starts to drip to your thighs, and Force, it's hot in here, shit, it's too bloody hot.

_"Please."_

You can't hold it in - you don't want to. Because his hands are skimming yours; his scent is sticking to your uniform. At this height, his lips are so close to eclipsing _it_ : it twitches, keening for him, keening for his lips to suck the tender gland on your neck. You read stories about this, but Hell: what story could ever do this feeling justice?

Your body is burning. Aching. Alight with this indescribable stillness.

He towers, all spice and cinnamon and darkness, sex and desperation - and the moment stops.

Holds itself.

 _"Omega,"_ he's unsteady, now: uncontained. The same voice you heard last night, husky as his breath sends tingles through your ear. "I want..."

And then, his lips are at your throat.

 

And the world

Just

Stops.

 

It's perfect chaos: the clap of lightning, splitting black skies in two. Your heart roars in your ears, in time with the gasping of your breath as you try - try being operative - to make sense of the ignition in your body. You moan so loudly that it shocks you, and Kylo: Kylo's hands fist the fabric on your shoulders in this desperate grip, tight enough to turn his bruised knuckles the brightest white. Colour bleeds strangely; and kriff, fuck, your jaw tilts of its own accord, giving him better access: _more, more, yes, good, so good, please please please--_

Kylo shivers, his mouth rhythmically sucking in a way that makes your body physically start to slip to the floor. His arms hook around your waist, steadying you as a short growl leaves his lips - and _the sound of it._ The sound is immolation in a fire that already burns too bright: your thighs trembling, heart pounding, slick pouring out of you.

_More, more, more._

It's nonsense. It's complete and utter nonsense. You're losing your shit under the weight of this want; under the weight of these soft lips.

"Alpha - Alpha, please, kriff, I just..."

You're not making a lick of sense.

Not one little bit.

Kylo's teeth graze a little on the edge of your gland: and ohhhhhhh Force. Your body reacts to that by letting your arm tilt upward, tilt behind you and roam to the back of his neck. Tangle your fingers in his thick, dark locks.

 _Pull_.

It puts pressure on his gland, and Kylo lets out this groan, this vibrating groan as you feel him thrust against your back. In his thin training pants, you can feel everything: every ridge on his cock, every inch of his knot, swollen now and clawing for relief. Desperate to be inside you.

A knot you know has swollen over just the mere thought of you several times before.

 _"Yes,"_ Kylo hisses in a breathy whisper "for _you."_

You'll take it.

Whatever he wants.

Your fingertips, now stretched to lace through his hair, roam just a little. Carding through his tresses as you squirm, breathy moans and dripping slick and endless wanting. His lips are still sealed tight around your gland: he won't let it go. Won't stop drinking in the taste of you.

Maybe he won't ever stop.

You don't want him to.

Thoughts trickle through your mind - weaving paths of desire that burn down, down, down. Some are sharp like razors; others dark, formless, nameless. And some? Some are candlelight; flickering, weaving.

It takes a moment to realise they aren't entirely _yours_.

And once you do: they open up.

Colours flash, lights dancing. Burning. Wanting. Needing? Needing, maybe. Or is that...fear? Is needing the same colour as fear, sometimes? Closeness is painted with a thick stripe of pain: physical pain. Lips like a branding iron. Starlight flashes by; it's cold, and distant, and feels like boardrooms in a sterile ship. Stale. Needing and fear. Needing and fear. _Please_ and  _want._

The world crashes forward: and you do, too. Your legs give way as you crumple, no steady hands to support you. Drenched in the thick scent of Alpha, pasted in your own slick: hands on the metal floor.

Kylo's back is flush against the wall; his lips swollen, eyes wide with utter fear. The gland on his neck is raised; the bulge in his pants undeniable. Smelling indescribably good.

He staggered away from you. Ripped himself away.

Why?

Why?!

He runs a trembling hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful of it and tugging. Tugging hard.

For a brief moment, you think he'll calm down. Think he'll explain. Think he'll bark an order at you - scream and thrash at you.

But he stumbles - desperate, uncoordinated stumbling - and staggers through the door.

Wounded. Emotionally wounded.

And you just lay down on the floor. Cold on your cheek.

_Fuck._

_You really should quit this damned job before it kills you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see  
> told ya
> 
> [Tell me what you think'd on the ol Tumblroony](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com).


	5. Pirates?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck." It's punched from his lungs: forced from them. Dark hair splaying as it hits the back of his chair; heavy-lidded gaze dripping with black desire that swallows every fleck of brown from his eyes. With one hand he smears precum across the shaft - the other kneads his knot, painfully swollen and red and full. Full for you: full to fill your cunt until there's room for nothing else.
> 
> And that lights the fire in you all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whhhhhhhhat do you mean plot? I was supposed to have one?  
> Uh

The ship is a blur.

Like being too drunk on fancy merlot, there's a sort of...glimmer in the edges. You know why it is of course: know it's nothing so fun as stumbling back to your quarters from a night that's gotten a little too heavy with the Bridge crew. You know it's not a blur like when you're yawning and rubbing your eyes in the early morning, right when the morning cycle kicks in.

It's the blur of pre-heat. The blur of a fever that isn't quite here yet.

_All crew to prepare for immediate evacuation._

There's a siren somewhere - always with the sirens in this place. Three short blasts, then two longer ones. Your legs are unstable as all Hell as you stumble through the corridor like a woman possessed, heading...where, exactly? Why are you...was there a reason for this? You don't quite remember...

The fever this time around must be hellish. You can't work out why the ship feels like it's turning on its axis: why you're shuffling through the corridor in flight pants and bare feet like it's the most normal thing in the world.

"Ugh." Your stomach aches: and you might just...just sit down for a second. Sit down on the cold metal floor. Someone will come by, right? Surely they will. Someone will help you to medical; help you find your way all over again.

_Hull breach in stern. Deferring to auxiliary power._

A hand presses to your lower back: calloused, muscled. Fanning out to support you.

_"Where are you?"_

His voice - his _voice_. You know that voice from somewhere strange - not quite here, but not quite there. It's deep and soft and tender and low: edged somewhere with urgency, with this briskness that can only come from a need for certainty he knows he might never get.

 _"I'm..."_ it's strange in your ears; breathy, wispy. _"I'm right here."_

He steps in front of you, then - the damned nerve of the man to be so insistent to someone so clearly struggling almost laughable as his eyes meet yours. Deep brown eyes; plush lips pulled taut as he cups your shoulder. There's an innocence in his face you swear wasn't there before. This softness, unaffected by time or tiredness or pain. His hair is shorter, dark robes looser than you've ever seen them.

_Life support systems at critical._

His head snaps up to the ceiling: your eyes follow his, seeing nothing but the blurring metal ceiling of The Finalizer. Wait...where did that alarm come from? Is that here? Shit, why aren't you more panicked? Why isn't he on the Bridge?

 _"Listen to me,"_ Kylo insists, rolling his lip over his teeth. _"You need to take the first escape pod you can. The midsection of the ship. Take a blaster and kill anyone who tries to stop you. Understood?"_

Hang on.

You're not on The Finalizer. You...You're on deployment. You have been for a standard week.

_This isn't real._

_"I'm dreaming. This is just a dream. The last time I saw you--"_

_"--We don't have time for this."_ He takes your other shoulder, eyes level with yours as he bends his back. _"Omega, you need to wake up. Now."_

_Oxygen reserves critical._

_"I don't..."_

He shakes you - hard. Hard enough that you feel the deceleration through your bones as your head bobs, making you feel nausea right through your stomach. Darkness webs: the world blurs.

"Kriffing damn it!" he yells, his voice not his own as it spills from his lips. "Rookie, wake the fuck up!"

Will's face is inches from yours in the dark room: eyes black, a sheen of sweat over his dark complexion as he gives you another shake. All around you alarms whir and screech in chaos, your bunk disheveled as the smell of smoke permeates your nostrils. Shit: what a wake up call. This is an absolute fuck up.

"Will?"

He gives a relieved smile, offering you an arm up. Everything's a mess: least not your loose sleeping pants, which are damp as all Hell with slick and sweat. Too bad it seems like you're gonna die in a pair of thin sweat pants and a white tank top. The pain in your stomach is intense: you stumble to your feet unsteadily as the grav brakes shake, the ship trembling from the force of _something_.

"Grab your blaster and follow me - we're getting off this rig!"

Your fever is all sorts of crazy, and it does cross your mind that well, shit, you haven't had a heat in a while. Is this some sort of weird suppressant induced haze? Will's scent is thick enough in the air that it's hard to push intrusive thoughts from your mind: that whole 'sunshiney-warm-honey-happy-Alpha' thing he has going on is suddenly suuuuuuper appealing, even as you fumble for your gun on the dresser. Down the corridor, someone shouts - shit, it doesn't sound good.

"What's going on?!" you flip off the safety and pocket your datapad, lips trembling in the low light.

Will waves you into the corridor, nostrils flaring. Two piercing alarms blare loudly enough that you both clasp your ears, your bare feet padding on cold metal.

"Pi--" Will's voice is drowned out "--tes! Blasted our sh--"

ALL CREW ARE TO PREPARE FOR IMMEDIATE EVACUATION.

Your ears ring from the voice-over, the corridor's bright light blinding you in your pre-heat state. Force, this is possibly the worst time to have your ship fucked over by a bunch of assholes. I mean, there's no good time for it: it's not like being blasted in deep space is the First Order equivalent of a surprise party. But you're walking on trembling thighs as you raise your blaster, rounding a corner with Will at your side. Your gland aches in the presence of a capable Alpha, your thighs pasted in sticky residue.

And stars, that desire to nest somewhere safe is kicking your ass.

The corridor looks fairly intact, save for some sparking wiring on the ceiling as you both move briskly to cover the distance. This transport ship is only made to carry fifty personnel: it's not flash, not the First Order's prized warship. It's just a rig retrofitted for naval reconnaissance and training - not exactly a high-class prize.

To pirates? A ship's a ship. Times are hard.

A human Omega hours from heat, though? Oh: some people would pay good money for that.

Very good money.

Will points his gun around the next corner of the corridor: you're coming up to the midship, close enough to where the hangars and escape pods are stationed. Perspiration beads on his hands, his uniform charred in places by forces unseen. It's not like you can ask - the alarms are blaring, the adrenaline pulsing through you both. He distractedly flickers a gaze at you, nostrils flaring.

In response: your gland tingles.

And then a blaster shot goes off.

It whirs through the air at a T-junction: Will fires back with a snarl as the shot just misses his collarbone. Everything moves so quickly that it can hardly be comprehended - one moment you're moving silently, the next you're in a firefight from too many angles to properly hold your own.

A man in a brown cloak rounds behind you, pushing you into Will's back as you fire a shot right at his chest. It misses - but clips the leg, and he staggers in pain. Will tackles a man in front of him: they fall to the floor with a clap, blaster skidding as you whirl.

LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEMS AT CRITICAL. ALL CREW ARE TO EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.

Slick drips; your hands shake. The shot isn't clean as the alarms blare - Will brings his fist into contact with the man's jaw as he struggles for his gun and you...shit, you can't get a shot, can't--

And someone slams into your side, sending you skidding over the floor.

Your head hits the wall as a light fixture sparks: the room flashes between bright-white and pitch black as your assailant digs his nails into your thigh. The scent of him is filth - it's like dirt and revulsion, like the scent of dark caves and wet sand. You fumble for your blaster: but it's not in your hands. Not in your hands as this man, this thing, wraps a gloved hand around your throat hard enough to bruise. Your gland burns at the intrusion: stars in your vision as you bring your knee right up--

\--it hits its mark. He topples.

It's only for a second - but a second is long enough. Your hand finally grabs the trigger of your blaster, ferries it closer - right as a blast of freezing air shoots through the space between you and Will. A huge metal strut slices through your assailant's foot, totally blocking Will's half of the corridor and your own as air hisses violently.

"--Bitch!" your assailant screams, his foot mangled but his hands still clawing, still desperate to tear you apart - or worse. His leg has half a blaster wound, foot leaking blood across the metal floor as you ready your shot at his head--

His windpipe suddenly crushes inward. Head jerking back - mask contorting in on itself as though from immense pressure. His hands claw at his neck as a sickening snap ripples through him, lights flashing and strobing to make your head pound. It's horrifying to watch, but the flood of relief at this impossible feat is absolutely undeniable as you scramble backward, your assailant writhing on the floor.

Your back hits a hard mass - boots in the crease of your back. Your head jerks upward in a sudden spike of fear.

 _"Commander,"_ you mouth, no sound hitting your ears in the wake of the chaos.

Kylo's dark mask is trained on the man as he twists his gloved hand, fingers stretching towards him in the flashing light. Your whole body burns in his presence; your veins aching and muscles trembling and eyes wide. You've never seen such a display of raw, ridiculous power: and huh. So the stories really are true - he really can kill without a spark of effort.

In this case, though - the man writhes on and on, Kylo's cape billowing in the cold air. It's horrifying and terrible when he finally falls limp, and even then: Kylo's shoulders heave. His mask trained on the crumpled form of what was once a man as though examining him for any sign of life. Anything.

Will. Where's Will? You have to--

TWO MINUTES OF OXYGEN REMAINING. ALL CREW MUST EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY.

Kylo's hands hook under your elbows as you try to scramble forward - try to reach the mass of metal bisecting the ship and tear it away with your bare hands.

"Will!" you scream: punching from your lungs in a sudden break in the whirring.

You stagger to your feet, but Kylo drags you back, scent drenching you in sudden safety as his cape billows.

"He's fine." Kylo's vocoder clicks, sharp next to your ear.

"You can't know that!"

"I do. Now _move._ "

Alpha. Alpha voice makes your gland ache, makes your body pull tight as Kylo drags you through into an escape pod bay. Almost every last pod is gone - the lights blink to show they've either deployed or been obliterated in the crossfire. The ship shakes with a sudden shock as Kylo snaps a hand against one of the release switches: the escape pod whiring as the hatch opens and he roughly pushes you inside.

Through the window, you see endless debris. The ship - or what's left of it - has been utterly bombarded in the chaos. The Bridge is halfway across the galaxy, and nothing can be done for the poor souls that were lost to it.

The escape pod is cramped: just big enough for four, but by no means in any comfortable sense. It's a stopgap that nobody wants to take - an expensive, difficult to manouvre stopgap.

Kylo doesn't enter.

"Get in!" you hiss, gland throbbing as you reach for his leg to drag him. He seems so still: a statue in his own right as the ship burns around him.

There's an escape pod of his own if he wants it.

You're both desperate he takes it and desperate he doesn't.

THIRTY SECONDS OF OXYGEN REMAINING. LIFE SUPPORT OFFLINE.

And with that: he ducks into the pod and slams down the hatch. His huge form eclipses the space as you pull the deployment lever: gravity kicking in a few seconds later as the thrusters kick in.

And then - you accelerate. 

* * *

 The one thing you always forget about space? How fucking cold it is.

You can live in space, eat in space, work in space: you can go on a spacewalk during your off days for fun and still find yourself forgetting, in the grim light of nothing, how absolutely freezing it can be. Now usually, being crammed into a cold metal pod would be cause for alarm - but right now? Right now you could just kiss the entirety of space: kiss the cold metal as it sends shivers through your ankles.

It's a desperately needed ice-pack on your bare feet. You tap your toes on the metal floor as you pick through your datapad: trying to get a signal, any signal. Any sort of coordinated response.

Kylo sits at the flimsy pilot's chair at the front of the pod: gloved fingers working communications, relaying to the fleet. The space is cramped, but maneuverable. A bench lines one side, the other housing a row of plasteel chests containing supplies and rations. The front houses a rather flashy looking viewport, with the back housing the hatch and the tiniest window.

Nothing but starlight before you. Nothing but debris behind.

_Nothing._

Nothing tangible, at least.

His scent cloys at your flimsy shirt, wrapping across the bruises on your throat like a branding iron. There is no filtration: nothing to replace the heady spice of him out here in the midst of nowhere. You know, know, know - know what happens, where this goes, what this does.

You know by the way your hard nipples push at the thin cotton. Know from how your grey pants are dark across the front, staining from the slick that pulses faster.

Your head spins. Your heart pounds.

You wonder if he notices at all.

Kylo works away at the navigation controls as though back on the Bridge, his thick frame constrained by the wiry chair in the dim light. In the few minutes since you left the ship he has said nothing - not unlike him, but Force. How you wish for something to break this tedious silence.

Any distraction. _Anything_.

Anything to keep you from feeling this growing pressure swimming in your blood.

On clumsy feet you stumble to the medkit, keying in the access and letting it pop open. You spot a heat pack in the midst of all the bandages; painkillers, too. Little white ones that you hope will do the trick - or at the very least knock you out cold. Can you die if you get knocked out cold in the presence of an Alpha during your heat? Do you just keep making--

_"--Ren?"_

"Hux." Kylo speaks into the communications relay, vocoder clicking. "At last."

_"I assume, judging by your coordinates, that your mission was a failure. Pity."_

Kylo's glove creaks. You swallow.

"Evacuation. How long?"

_"Three hours."_

Three hours? _Three hours?_

Oh Force. Oh no. _Oh no._

_Three hours?!_

Kylo's whole body straightens: his hand grips the controls as though to snap the device clean off.

"I would think about recalculating that," Kylo hisses, "very, very carefully, General."

_"Three hours. Given the circumstances of having to re-route--"_

Kylo rips through the speaker with his fingers: the wiring sparking in his grip as he jolts to standing. The air around him almost pulses with the movement as the plastic skids to the side, static cracking before shorting out altogether. His cloak billows as he pants, vocoder scrambling the sound into a cracked hiss that makes your whole body ache.

Fear twinges in your gut, if only for a moment.

_Three hours._

Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuckfuck._

Okay. One step at a time. One step at a time.

Kylo pants over the controls as you reach for a threadbare blanket and space it out on the cold metal floor. It's scratchy and sterile and smells of bleach, but...a nest's a nest, even if the urge to cry is getting pretty fucking unbearable. There's a second one, too: you fold it into a makeshift pillow and prop it against the hatch door, forming this undesirable and unsafe makeshift nest right in the middle of the floor.

It's not safe. It's not safe, and it's sterile, and it's cold, and you're so desperate for your bed you could just...

Oh. Yep. Those are tears. Little light ones.

It's not quite sadness - closer to frustration, to discomfort at being so exposed and exhausted and _turned on_ , somehow. You'd think those emotions would be so damned incompatible, but your body is sending feverish shocks right through to your core. Burning in your bloodstream as you curl up, gritting your teeth against the waves of desire.

Alpha. Please.

You shuffle up against the wall in one corner; face turned away from the enigmatic Alpha that makes your core throb. You can do this - you can. After the last time you saw him he wants nothing to do with you, nothing at all. And that's fine...that's fine. That's fine, because you don't need him. Don't need his scent. Don't need his mouth on your gland, sucking and nipping at the tender skin there. You certainly don't need his thick, swollen knot - don't need him to fill you up with it.

You cover your mouth with one hand, clapping it to your lips. The other slides beneath your waistband: slides over the sopping wet folds there, aching and desperate. Your fingers push in, and oh - no resistance at all. Nothing to stop them as your body keens, breath drawing in sharply at the intrusion. You bite down on the inside of your palm as you work circles into your clit: beyond caring whether a man about four ranks your senior is privy to it. Beyond anything but release - finding it, chasing it, keeping your mind together.

Heat brain wants more than that, though.

Even as your nose nudges the metal hull: memories blur with desperate wants. Blur with the scent of burnt cinnamon and spice as your toes curl. Alpha swirls - your cunt clenches at the thought of him, the thought of his bare fingers skimming your hot skin. His cock deep inside you, his knot warm and tight and swollen as his plush lips suck at your neck. The sound of slick spilling around the swelling; you can still see him, those weeks ago. Thrusting into his palm, precum smeared on his--

"Could you," Kylo's voice cuts through your musings like a hot knife as you thrust against your fingers, biting back a moan. "Keep your thoughts in less detail, Lieutenant?"

His breathing is hitched - scent sharp on the roof of your mouth. Your skin prickles as you squeeze your eyes shut.

"Stop listening."

Oh woah. You just said that? You really don't give a fuck, do you?

Somewhere at the front of the ship, Kylo's fist pounds on the metal hull.

"I _can't_ ," he spits.

He can't stop - and neither can you. You add a third finger, gasping into your wrist at the intrusion as you drool into your hand. Desperate to cum: knowing full well it's so, so much harder in heat. It's a mess as the blankets pool beneath you, your grey pants slicked to your thighs as you roll over.

What you see and smell then? Nearly has you clenching around yourself.

Commander Ren's mask is cast off on the floor. His cloak drapes around the chair; it's tilted to face you. He's perched on the very closest edge to you - dark hair mussed and beautifully splayed around his forehead as his head tilts back just so towards the ceiling. Both of his hands are now free of gloves; they're bare and calloused and one is covering his barely parted lips, resting on the sharp press of his cheekbones.

The other? Clenched. Clenched over his tight leather pants, over the taut material. He kneads the swelling there - it's obvious, so fucking obvious what that is, so fucking obvious with the way his blush stains every inch of his face. So obvious in the way his eyes are squeezed shut like he's burning, too, like he's--

"--Alpha," you whimper, biting your lip and withdrawing your hand from your mouth. Force, Force, the fever is rising and you...he could just push you to your hands and knees now. You wish, wish, wish he'd just... "Kylo, I'm so...it hurts, it hurts so much and you smell so..."

He _groans_.

His entire body shakes, drips with sweat as he bites down on his fist in incredible, incredible frustration - growling wildly and loudly enough that his whole form vibrates with it. Force, fuck, it's the hottest thing; the way he wildly throws down the zip to his pants and forces the tight leather down. 

His scent doubles - and at the sight of his hard, knotted cock: you cum.

It's this drenching thing; this painful thing that forces stars at your vision as your legs kick out. The blanket twists as you drool into it, drooling everywhere like a damned fool who just can't help herself as the world moves far, far too fast.

 _"Fuck."_ It's punched from his lungs: forced from them. Dark hair splaying as it hits the back of his chair; heavy-lidded gaze dripping with black desire that swallows every fleck of brown from his eyes. With one hand he smears precum across the shaft - the other kneads his knot, painfully swollen and red and full. Full for you: full to fill your cunt until there's room for nothing else.

And that lights the fire in you all over again.

"Come here," you're begging, now: you can't give a fuck, can't give one solitary fuck as you press your thumb to your clit again. "Alpha, I _need_ your _knot."_

At that: his eyes roll back. He gasps, still pumping vigorously: this desperation driving him, pulling him under as though this is the hottest thing he's ever seen. The hottest thing he could possibly imagine seeing. You know that knot will need to go down a little before you can take him; if he cums, it'll empty just enough, it'll fit just tightly enough to satisfy the heat that threatens to burn you, burn you both.

But your body doesn't care. Doesn't care to wait.

You pump your fingers through the endless slick in time with his desperate pants: you both making the most obscene, disgusting noises. Your scents twine, mingling as Kylo grits his teeth.

"Please," he spits, gasping for air. "Come on, _please."_

His calloused fingers knead his knot so tightly that it looks painful - looks absolutely sublime as he arches his hips into his hand. Your whole body lights with shocks; as on edge as he is to see him cum, see the edge taken off so he can fuck you senseless on the floor.

And then the scent hits you.

His cum is so thick: thicker than you've seen cum as it oozes, oozes from the head so slowly that it's languid. The scent of it is unmistakeable: your body knows what this is. Knows by the way Kylo keeps pumping. Knows by the way he's not cumming right because fuck, of course he can't. Of course it won't. He won't until he's deep inside you: his body will resist relief without you. Kylo seems to know the moment it drips down his shaft - his body denying a real, relieving orgasm for the first time in memory.

He _moans_.

Ruts are powerful. Ruts are desperate.

Ruts are exquisite.

So you're sure as fuck not complaining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pour yourself a glass of water. Hydration is important and you're probably lacking right now
> 
> [Tumblr Tumblr Tuuuumblr liiiiiiiiiiink](callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


End file.
